


Between Friends

by ohmarqueliot



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-01 18:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16770601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmarqueliot/pseuds/ohmarqueliot
Summary: The Physical Kids throw a party. Josh's magical pot brownies guarantee a good time, but the night holds more for Quentin than he could have expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set during one of the other timelines.
> 
> Thanks to the folks on FTB for the constant encouragement.
> 
> This was supposed to be a oneshot, but then I got 8k words in and still had a lot more to write, so here's part 1.

“Is it weird for you?”

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Quentin looked over to where Eliot stood before his mirror, fussing with his hair with quick, deft fingers. He’d flown into his bedroom at least ten minutes ago without so much as a by-your-leave, complaining that Margo and Alice had taken over _his_ room because he had the bigger mirror, and it’s not like Quentin would be using his anyway. Quentin hadn’t bothered to point out that there was a perfectly good bathroom mirror that he could use just down the hall.

“Is what weird?”

Eliot shrugged without taking his eyes off of his own reflection. “You know. The fact that your ex girlfriend is getting her _Harold, they’re lesbians_ on with Margo.”

Pushing down his automatic response of _it’s fine I’m fine everything’s fine_ , Quentin actually considered the question, letting his head drop back onto the pillow. Eliot didn’t sound antagonistic, just curious, and the thought that he actually wanted to know how he felt about it made it easier for him to examine it properly for the first time since he’d found out that Alice and Margo were a thing. “It’s actually… not,” he said to the ceiling, surprising himself a little with the admission. “Alice and I were a mess from the start. I think I loved the idea of us more than the reality. And… and they’re happy, right?”

He heard Eliot’s quiet snort. “Oh, they’re happy all right. Haven’t you heard how happy they are? At all hours of the night, in the morning, all over the cottage in the middle of the day -”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” he said, but instead of being uncomfortable hearing about their sexual proclivities, he was smiling and rolling his eyes at Eliot. Picking up the pack of cards from his bedside table, he shuffled them idly, turning the cards every few passes. Taking half the pack, he bowed them between his thumb and his forefinger and flicked them up above him, freezing the air so that they hung above him like one of those constellations on the roof kind of things.

One of the cards at the edge wobbled, and when he turned his focus to it the rest of the cards fell down around him. With a quick glance at Eliot, he drew the cards back to him and went back to shuffling them.

Eliot wasn’t paying attention to him anyway. Tongue between his teeth, his face was a mask of concentration as he twisted a strand of hair in the other direction. Quentin was fairly certain that he’d never seen him with such a serious expression. He felt a moment of relief that he didn’t have the energy to put that much effort into his appearance - not that he’d be able to look anything up to Eliot’s standard if he spent all day trying, and it certainly wouldn’t seem anywhere close to the effortlessness that he exuded afterwards.

He was sure, but he thought he caught a quick glance at him through the mirror. “You should finish getting ready. We’re almost going to be late for being fashionably late to our own party.”

Quentin raised his eyebrows at him pointedly. “Yeah, that’s _not_ my fault.” Although if he were honest, he’d much rather just hang out here in his room anyway. Frowning, he looked down at his outfit - grey jeans, black shirt. He’d considered just staying in the clothes that he’d worn during the day, but Eliot and Margo had already chewed him out for that multiple times, and he wanted to put in _some_ effort. Kinda. “And I am ready.”

Sighing heavily, Eliot paused to meet his eyes in the mirror. “Of course you are,” he said resignedly.

Screwing up his face, Quentin flicked a card in his direction, smirking when it hit him in the back of his head. It couldn't have hurt, and it didn't even mess up his hair, but he felt smug for having got him anyway.

His bedroom door opened, saving him from Eliot’s full reaction, although he did throw a warning glance over his shoulder at him before turning back to the mirror. Margo stepped into the room, closely followed by Alice and then Josh. Quentin leaned over to peer through the door pointedly. “Anyone else? Apparently the party’s in here now.”

“Stop complaining,” Margo said, pulling Alice across to sit on the bed. He sat up properly to give them more room. “We come with gifts.”

“ _I_ come with gifts,” Josh said, taking the chair from his desk and pulling it over to the bed. Sitting on it backwards, he lifted the container in his left hand, gesturing at it dramatically with his right.

Quentin eyed the brownies in the container dubiously. There was zero percent chance that they were just plain old regular brownies, and he’d had some bad experiences with the types of drugs Josh supplied. “Do you at least know what they do this time?”

Josh at least had the nerve to look sheepish. “I’ve tested this herb extensively, I’ll have you know. Nothing too crazy on the magical drug barometer, but a good deal of fun stuff: lowered inhibitions, increased stamina and energy, a whole heap of good vibes. A guaranteed good time with no side effects.” He held out the container, swaying it in the air before him. “No one’s twisting your arm here, kid.”

This time, anyway, but Quentin didn’t press the point. He owed Josh - when he’d discovered that, no matter what Dean Fogg said, he wasn’t great without his antidepressants, Eliot had referred him to his drug guy. The third year not only had his usual prescription, but a whole variety of other drugs, the regular kind and the magical kind and blends of the two.

It had been an interesting few months.

Following Margo’s lead, he leaned forward and took one of the brownies, then stared dumbly at the hand that snaked around him to take it from him. Twisting around, he found Eliot standing on the other side of the bed behind him, chewing innocently. “You’re welcome,” he said dryly.

Eliot raised his eyebrows, sticking his thumb in his mouth to clean off the chocolatey crumbs that lingered there. “Hmm?”

Quentin frowned up at him, reaching over to grab another brownie. “Why is it me that you always have to steal from?”

Margo stifled a laugh, and Eliot glanced over at her with a grin. “Oh, Q. You never steal from Bambi. She will cut you. And now Alice is under her protection, so that makes you the weak link.”

Asshole. “Your hair looks stupid,” he said, aiming where he knew it would hurt.

Eliot just shrugged. They both knew it didn’t.

He took a bite of the brownie. It tasted pretty damn good - Josh definitely had a talent for all things consumable. “Give it a second to kick in, dude,” Josh said when Eliot leaned past him to take a second. “One’s enough.”

“Maybe for you amateurs,” he said, taking a deliberate bite and then striding toward the door. “Are you all seriously going to sit around all night? The party’s downstairs, people.”

He disappeared through the door, and Quentin sighed in exasperation. Margo licked her fingers clean, uncurled her legs from underneath her and followed Eliot from the room, winking at Alice as she went. “Come on, losers, the night’s a’wasting.”

As Josh turned to set the container on his desk, he found himself sitting alone on the bed with Alice. She rolled her eyes at him, and he smiled at her in commiseration. “Why are we friends with them again?”

She raised her eyebrows at him incredulously. “You started it,” she said.

He was about to protest that Eliot and Margo had just kind of adopted him and he wasn’t even really sure how it had happened, but he let go of his joking complaint. A part of him wondered when the first year hazing stuff would end, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He was still a little bit terrified of Margo and intimidated by Eliot, but he’d also never found two people more protective of the people they cared about… which somehow had come to include him.

And it felt kind of amazing to have people like Eliot and Margo looking out for him and caring about him, so he put up with the jokes and the teasing because it felt, almost, kind of, like he maybe had a family.

The rest of his family was in the common room when he finally made his way downstairs. “Why am I the one playing host at your goddamned party?” Julia asked, crossing her arms over her chest after pointing someone toward the bar.

Quentin shrugged. “Don't ask me, I'm just a lowly first year.”

Julia raised her eyebrows at his comically. “Dude. I'm also a first year, and not even in this fucking house.”

He looked over his shoulder at Alice, who didn't seem to have anything better to offer. “Yeah, I've got nothing,” he said, linking his arm through hers. He was starting to feel light, like nothing could touch him. “Drink?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Instead of hanging around the bar, they grabbed a bottle of whiskey and found a place on the couch. He let his body sink into the furniture, and when Julia plopped down beside him, he leaned into her heavily enough that she pushed him back with a laugh. “Geez, Q,” she said, hooking her arm around his neck. “What are you on?”

Quentin leaned into her touch gratefully. It felt nice to have someone leaning against him. He knew he had people… it was just nice to know that those people still liked him when they were high. Or… no, Julia wasn't high. He was. He really fucking was. Josh’s brownies hadn’t taken long to take effect. Grinning at her, he took a moment to make sure he sounded coherent. “It's Josh's fault,” he said, and even if his words were childish, at least they were steady.

Julia grinned at him hopefully. “And?” she said, drawing out the word.

“Yeah okay, there’s like half the stash left in my room.”

Kissing his cheek, she passed him the whiskey and, giving strict orders to save her seat, headed upstairs. Turning so that his back was against the armrest, he spread his legs over the couch, letting his attention wander around the room. There were maybe a dozen people that he knew to varying degrees around the room and as many again that he didn’t, and for once his usual desire to hide until everyone disappeared was strangely absent. He felt good.

He caught sight of Alice across the room, talking animatedly to a second year that he vaguely recognised, and smiled warmly. He hoped she was feeling as carefree as he was. Margo was at the bar, laughing with Eliot as he did something fancy with a cocktail shaker, Josh was talking to a few of his fellow Naturalists, and Kady was… walking straight towards him. She stopped in front of the couch, and – sure, he’d been saving it for Julia, but when she looked pointedly at his legs he didn’t feel like he had a choice. “Where’s Penny?” he asked, pulling his legs off the couch and offering her the whiskey.

“He wasn’t in the mood to be bombarded with dozens of people’s drunken thoughts,” she said with a shrug, taking a mouthful and then handing the bottle back to him.

Quentin wasn’t devastated. It was great that Julia had found not one but two people who really cared about her, but to say Penny was a dick would be putting it nicely. Kady wasn’t any softer, but at least she didn’t make him feel like a piece of shit every time she saw him.

Julia returned before he had to think of something else to say, dropping herself into Kady’s lap. “Where were we?” she asked, curling her legs up between Quentin and Kady.

“Getting shitfaced?” he suggested, holding up the whiskey.

Grinning at him, she took the bottle and raised it between them in a salute. “Roger that.”

* * *

Several hours and another magic drug brownie later, Quentin was feeling really fucking good.

Josh had been right. There was nothing overly special or crazy about the high – it didn’t have him seeing everything in inverted colour or hearing dead people or thinking he was Cleopatra (all of which had happened thanks to Josh’s experiments). But he felt happy, he felt light, and it didn’t feel fake. He and Julia were talking over each other to tell a story from their college days, and he didn’t feel annoyed _or_ annoying to be semi the centre of attention of the people around the couch. Even Margo was laughing along. She’d taken his spot on the couch when he’d gotten up to use the bathroom, draping her legs over Julia’s, and when he’d sunk down onto the floor beside her she’d dropped an affectionate hand on his shoulder. She was usually more touchy-feely with Eliot, and now Alice, but neither of those were in reach and he felt a kind of special that she found him to be an acceptable substitute.

Someone had changed her perfectly thought out playlist to one that he was pretty sure could be labelled ‘obnoxiously stereotypical party classics’, and the fact that she’d only made vague protests said that she was feeling just as light-hearted as he was. When she did eventually get up, he figured she’d finally decided to do something about the music, but instead she worked her way onto the impromptu dance floor that had formed in the small amount of open space in the common room.

Alice had let slip that she knew how to turn herself blue, Violet Beauregarde style but without the expanding, and Julia was trying to badger her into sharing the spell. Eliot was lying on his back on the floor beside him, and Quentin would have been fairly sure that he was asleep if not for the cigarette that hung lazily from his lips. Although, it looked like it hadn’t been ashed in a while, and when he opened his eyes and looked up at Alice with interest, ash dropped onto his shirt. Brushing it away, his eyes narrowed when he spotted the empty seat beside Julia on the couch. “Where’s Bambi?” he asked, sounding personally offended that she wasn’t there.

“Dancing,” Quentin said, glancing up at the moving bodies nearby and raising his eyebrows when he spotted her. “With Todd.”

Eliot’s eyes widened, and he pushed himself up on his elbows. “I have to rescue her,” he said, his voice deep and determined.

“It actually looks like she’s fine –“

The intensity in Eliot’s stare made him cut himself off. Quentin noticed, not for the first time, how nice his eyes were. “I have to rescue her,” Eliot repeated, slower and more adamant, and then scrambled to his feet without waiting for a response.

Smiling to himself and shaking his head, Quentin turned back to the others. The talk turned from turning people blue to turning objects blue, and Alice eventually gave in to teach them the spell. Their first attempts were all wildly off, and the sound of Julia uncharacteristically stumbling over the words for the spell had both him and Kady breathless with laughter. Even Alice was grinning – she’d declined a second brownie but was probably still riding the lingering high from her first one, considering her lower tolerance.

They finally managed to get their shit together enough to make the spell work, although when Quentin was finished the remaining whiskey in the second bottle that they were sharing had more of a teal colour than the blue he’d been going for. It still tasted just as alcoholic, which was the main thing. His next attempt was the coffee table in front of him, and he was in the middle of transferring from Popper 19 to Popper 42 when the song changed. _Shot through the heart –_

“ _And you’re to blame_ ,” he sang loudly and automatically, his head jerking up and grinning when he found Julia pointing at him, her eyes alight as she sang along. “ _Darling, you give love a bad name._ ” He started banging his head when the guitar came in, knowing Julia would be doing the same. She’d gone through a Bon Jovi stage right when he’d been going through his Julia stage, and he couldn’t count the amount of times they’d danced around her bedroom to this song.

Hands grabbed his, and he looked up to find Julia standing above him. “Come on, dance with me,” she laughed, and he couldn’t deny her. He’d been quite content to sit around all night, but suddenly his blood pounded with too much energy to just sit still – dancing sounded like an _amazing_ idea. Using the couch as leverage, he let her pull him to his feet and followed her into the mill of people. The music flowed through him like blood, like oxygen, like magic. He was distantly aware that he would usually feel self-conscious about dancing with so many people to watch him make an idiot of himself, but he was the furthest thing from caring. After a minute Julia disappeared and he made himself focus to see her dragging a very reluctant looking Kady up off of the couch, but he didn’t even have the chance to feel put out before an arm wrapped around his waist, a hand grabbing his shoulder and spinning him, spinning with him.

His scent was familiar, his laughter in his ear familiar, and Quentin leaned into Eliot as he span them, gripping onto him tightly as he stumbled and somehow, the two of them managed to keep each other upright. Eliot stopped spinning, loosening his grip on him but Quentin clung to his arms, struggling to breathe through his laughter and feeling dangerously unsteady on his feet but that only added to the hilarity. The room felt like it was still moving around him. Grinning down at him, Eliot’s hands on his waist held him upright for a few seconds before taking both of his hands in his own, pulling on them until he gave in and started dancing with him.

They sang their way dramatically through song after song, dancing and laughing and falling over each other. Eliot’s hand was warm in his, or holding his arm or the back of his neck or around his waist, and his touch kept him grounded. Quentin really liked touching Eliot. Margo joined them at some stage, revelling in their attention as they serenaded her, but only lasted a few minutes before disappearing again. The next time he caught a glimpse of her from across the room, she was getting hot and heavy with Alice in the corner.

He felt light and exhilarated. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so good. _I Wanna Dance With Somebody_ came on, and he put his whole body into hitting the high notes, still missing them while Eliot reached them easily. So far as he could tell, anyway, above the loud music. Feeling inspired, he lifted his arm and twirled him underneath it, both of them laughing at the way Eliot had to bend to get under his arm. Eliot adjusted his grip on his hand, holding it firmly before spinning him out and somehow he managed not to stumble or bump into anybody, even when he threw his other arm out in a dramatic flair. When he pulled him back in, he let himself fall hard into Eliot, his hands against his chest, his mouth against his.

He wasn’t even sure how it happened, whether Eliot ducked his head or he pulled it down, but he was kissing Eliot and Eliot was kissing him _back,_ and it wasn’t just a quick peck on the lips or a soft, gentle ‘testing the waters’ kind of first kiss. Eliot kissed him hungrily, one arm around him while the other gripped the back of his neck, both pulling him closer, closer, and there was no close enough. His hands fisted in his shirt, pulling Eliot down and himself up. He leaned up on his toes and fell forward slightly, the kiss breaking as he tried to balance himself against Eliot. He heard his delighted laughter in his ear, and barely had time to suck in a breath before he was kissing him again, his hand firm on the small of his back, holding him against him. Planting his feet more firmly, he reached up to bury his hand in Eliot’s hair, his other hand gripping onto his shoulder as their mouths moved together, lips and tongues and teeth exploring each other. He tasted like whiskey and cigarettes, and Quentin kissed him desperately, the two of them clinging to each other and it was completely absurd how quickly it had turned from two friends fucking around on the dance floor to this complete and utter need to crawl into each other.

Quentin had no idea how they got across the room, but when his heel hit something he reached out to stop himself falling backwards, his hand grabbing onto something hard just above waist height that he realised was the banister. The kiss broke, and laughter bubbled up out of him at the thought of tripping up the stairs. Eliot turned him around, his hands on him just as familiar as always except now acting with the purpose of getting him _upstairs_ and _alone_ , and Quentin flew up the stairs so quickly that he stumbled twice more. Reaching the top, he turned around immediately and Eliot was right there, not only stepping into his arms but pushing him back, kissing him with purpose as he pressed him up against the wall.

Quentin’s hand dove in Eliot’s hair again, keeping his mouth on his while his other hand arm slipped around his waist, his fingers twisting in the silky material of his vest and tugging him closer, impossibly closer, and the feel of his body pressed up against his so firmly from knee to chest made his knees weak. Eliot’s hips rolled forward into his and he gasped at the friction against his quickly growing erection. His own hips rocked forward, seeking more, and he was encouraged when Eliot’s hand slipped around him to grasp his ass, squeezing it and pulling him forward with the same motion. He could feel – _fuck_ ­ – he could feel Eliot’s cock, hard against him, hard _because of_ him, and he couldn’t spend another second in this goddamn hallway.

Pushing Eliot away, he took a deep breath but didn’t have the chance to speak before Eliot grabbed his hand, pulling him in the direction of his bedroom. The second Eliot closed the door Quentin kissed him again, giddy with surprise at how readily he kissed him back, gratified by the way Eliot seemed just as desperate as his was. He tried to push him back against the door, but Eliot pushed harder, walking them back toward his bed and yes, that was good, that was better. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back onto it, pushing himself up the bed until he sat closer to the middle. Eliot had paused and was unlacing his boots shoes in quick, deft movements, and Quentin followed his lead, undoing the knots on his Converse and then tugging them off without bothering to unlace them properly.

He was just tossing his second shoe aside when Eliot crawled onto the bed and pushed him down onto his back, finding his mouth again at the same time that he settled between his legs, and Quentin groaned loudly at the feeling of his body pressing against his. His hips lifted automatically, his hands grabbing Eliot’s waist and pulling him down into him. The sound that Eliot made was muffled against his lips, but it still sent a thrill through him and if his kiss turned desperate and messy, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

When Eliot broke the kiss, Quentin sucked in air, but his gasp caught in his throat when Eliot nosed his head to the side and kissed his neck. “Ahh,” he sighed, finishing on a breathless laugh when he felt teeth brushing against a particularly sensitive bit of skin and his body rolled in response. He knew he should be trying to catch his breath, but it was hard to focus on anything else when Eliot started working his way down his neck and over his collarbone, unbuttoning his shirt in frustratingly slow movements, his lips and tongue teasing every inch of skin he bared. “Okay, that’s really fucking hot,” he breathed.

Eliot tilted his head up to grin at him, and Quentin realised that it was the first pause they’d had since before they’d first kissed. He waited for the freak out to start, or for Eliot to change his mind and kick him out, and when neither of those things happened impatience rose in him like an unstoppable force. He didn’t want teasing, he didn’t want slow. His blood felt like it was on fire, his body itched for friction, his heart soaring with joy, and he needed Eliot _now._ Pulling him up, he reached for his vest, fumbling with the tiny buttons and thankfully, _thank fuck_ , he seemed to pick up on his urgency. Knocking his hands away, he sat up between Quentin’s legs and started undoing his own buttons and Quentin took his lead, leaning forward and pulling his shirt over his head.

While Eliot was still unbuttoning his own shirt, Quentin pushed himself into a sitting position and reached for Eliot’s belt, surprising himself with how quickly he managed to undo it. He couldn’t wait - pulling down the zipper, he slipped his hand inside and curled his fingers around his cock. Eliot stilled, his eyes fluttering closed and then squeezing tighter when Quentin adjusted his grip, pulling him free of his pants and stroking him in one movement, and his mouth went dry in anticipation when he saw him properly for the first time. He was big, bigger than Quentin, and he felt a heady blend of anticipation and nervousness.

The moan that fell from Eliot’s lips when he continued to stroke him sent a shiver through him. After a few seconds Eliot pulled away to shed his pants and Quentin followed suit, making quick work of his belt buckle and then lying back when Eliot helped to drag his jeans down his legs. Before he could blink he was above him again, and the feel of warm, soft skin sliding against his made him feel lightheaded. He could feel Eliot’s cock rubbing against his and sunk his teeth into his lower lip to hold back the embarrassingly desperate sound that threatened to erupt from him.

“What do you want?” Eliot said, his voice deep and thick as he trailed his nose along his jaw.

His eyes falling shut, Quentin tightened his grip on his waist. “Everything,” he said hoarsely, and meant it. He wanted everything. “ _Jesus_. You,” he managed, knowing he couldn’t leave this bed without knowing what it felt like to have Eliot inside him. “Now.”

“ _Fuck_.”

Eliot pulled back, and when Quentin heard a familiar crinkle of foil he opened his eyes to see him rolling a condom over himself. He tossed the wrapped aside and then flicked the lid open on the bottle of lube – where had that come from? He didn’t even care, not when he was coating his fingers and then massaging them against his opening. His head fell back against the pillow when Eliot pressed a finger inside him, and then another. “El –“ His words cut off when his fingers curled inside him at the same time as his other hand wrapped around his cock, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. “Oh my god.”

“Mmhmm,” Eliot said, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself. Both of his hands pulled away, pressing instead on his thighs to spread them further and Quentin looked down to see Eliot lining himself up against him. “Relax,” he breathed, and then he felt him pressing against his opening. He pushed in slowly and Quentin tried to breathe through it, tried to relax but it had been a while and the stretch was uncomfortable. He felt the head slip inside him and Eliot paused, his hips rocking gently to let him get used to the feel of it before he pushed further in. He focused on Eliot’s face, on the way his brows knit together, his lips parted, at the small, strained sound that fell from them when he pressed all the way in. “Fuck, Q,” he groaned.

Quentin felt like the breath had all been knocked out of him. He felt full, so full, and the blatant want in Eliot’s voice made his cock give an interested twitch. “Please,” he moaned, not caring how desperate he sounded. He bit down on his bottom lip, drinking in the sight of him. His hands were still on his thighs, and his eyes darted up over his arms, his shoulders, over the smattering of dark hair on his chest. He shifted against him, whining at the feel of it, watching Eliot’s stomach muscles tighten in response. He wanted to feel him. “Oh my god, please.”

Eliot’s laugh was light when he pulled out, and cut off by his own moan when he thrust back in. A few more thrusts and the burn was overtaken by pleasure and need. Grabbing Eliot’s wrists, he pulled him down on top of him, fingers gripping at his waist, sliding over his skin to his back. Eliot dropped onto his elbows, and when his mouth found his the searing kiss soothed the strain of the new angle until all he could think about was how their bodies were moving together. Eliot took no encouragement to pick up his pace, and he was overwhelmed with desperate kisses, needy cries, clutching hands, hard and fast thrusts that Quentin felt in his bones. Eliot dropped his head to press his forehead against his shoulder, and the long groan that left his lips went straight to his cock.

He was hard, so hard, and the way his cock rubbed against Eliot’s stomach was torture, but he didn’t realise how close he was until Eliot leaned back, supporting himself with one hand on his waist while the other wrapped around his erection. Quentin bucked his hips, causing Eliot’s cock to rub harder against his prostate, and he cried out loudly. “Fuck.” Eliot’s next thrust hit the same spot, and combined with the way his hand was now pumping over him, it had him right on the edge. “Eliot. Shit.” He didn’t want it to be over, not yet. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gritted his teeth, trying to will it back but he had no chance, not if Eliot kept that up. “Stop, I’m going to – _fuck_ , I’m going to come, I don’t –”

Eliot didn’t stop, and he opened his eyes again to look up at him desperately. Eliot’s curls had fallen forward into his face, his brow furrowed in exertion, but he was smiling at him in an almost wicked delight. “Oh, Q,” he gasped. “What makes you think you’re… only coming once tonight?”

His hand tightened and Quentin thrust up into it, and when his orgasm shattered through him seconds later he didn’t fight it. His body stiffened as he came, spilling onto Eliot’s hand and his own stomach. His eyes never left Eliot’s, and he felt like he should be self conscious but he couldn’t focus on anything except for the electricity flowing through him. Eliot moved his hand to his hip, and his thrusts sped up again. Quentin was too sensitive, it was too much, but he wasn’t going to make Eliot stop, not with those soft sounds falling from his lips with every movement. Soon after his fingers tightened almost painfully, and Eliot let out a long, broken moan as his face distorted beautifully, his hips stuttering against his as his cock pulsed inside him.

Eliot was breathing heavily, his shoulders slumped, a half smile on his face, and Quentin didn’t think he’d ever looked more beautiful. His brow furrowed when he pulled out, pushing back to sit on his heels, resting his clean hand on his leg. “Well then,” he said, patting his leg quickly before turning to climb off of the bed.

Quentin was feeling pleasantly boneless and relaxed, but he pushed himself up on his elbows, watching as Eliot walked around his bedroom. He’d seen him in various states of undress before, and he was entirely unsurprised that he was just as shameless about his nudity now. He peeled off the condom and dropped it in the trash, then pulled a clean towel from the bottom drawer of his wardrobe, cleaning first his hand and then wiping at his crotch. “Here,” he said, tossing it to Quentin before slipping back onto the bed beside him.

Quentin cleaned himself up quickly and then dropped the towel on the floor beside the bed, wondering if they’d really have chance to need it again. As he settled back onto the bed, shifting up so that he was level with Eliot and pulling a pillow under his head, he recognised the familiar smell of cigarettes and looked over at Eliot. He lay on his back, one hand scratching idly at his chest, the other holding the cigarette to his lips. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful, and Quentin felt a hint of… something. Something he hadn’t let himself explore before.

Because he’s always known he wasn’t good enough for Eliot. Eliot wasn’t interested in him. He was hardly shy about his intentions, and he’d never made more than a joking attempt with Quentin.

Yet here he was, in his bed. And sure, maybe it was just the drugs but was he still high, or was this just post-orgasm bliss? He felt exhilarated, he felt light, and he didn’t care about anything more than how good he felt. All of his reasonings, all of his worries didn’t matter right now. He was happy.

“You’re staring at me.”

Quentin blinked, and realised that Eliot had opened one eye and was watching him with a small smirk on his face. “Sorry,” he said quickly, not entirely sure what the protocol was when you’d just had sex with one of your best friends and were considering the fact that you actually had genuine feelings for them.

He really, really didn’t want him to kick him out.

Shrugging indifferently, Eliot took another draw from the cigarette before offering it silently to him. Not wanting to turn down the offer, Quentin took it from him and brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply. Blowing the smoke up into the air above them, he watched it dissipate, letting himself relax into the moment. Too much, apparently – he felt a burn against his chest and looked down to see ash from the cigarette on his skin. “Shit,” he muttered, brushing it off him quickly.

“Not in the sheets,” Eliot protested, but he was laughing as he carefully picked up the fragment of ash and brushed his fingers off into the ashtray beside the bed. “You are ridiculous, you know that?”

Quentin passed him back the cigarette, letting his fingers brush against Eliot’s as he did so. “I can’t be that ridiculous,” he said without thinking, his mind on the sounds that Eliot had made just a few minutes ago.

Eliot’s smile was thoughtful when he looked at him sideways. “No. I guess not. But also, yes entirely.”

Rolling his eyes, he reached out to push him. Eliot caught his hand in his and held it firm, raising his eyebrows challengingly, and his thoughts shifted from playful to something more in the blink of an eye. He saw the moment Eliot realised it too and didn’t hesitate, didn’t let himself second guess it. Using Eliot’s grip as leverage, he rolled onto his side and pulled Eliot into him, cupping the back of his head as he pressed his lips against his.

Eliot rolled into him, his hand smoothing down his side to pull their bodies together, and Quentin couldn’t believe it was that easy – lean in, kiss him, done. Thrilling in the feeling of his warm skin against his, he freed his hand and grabbed onto his shoulder, slipping the other arm around his waist.

It was only a few minutes before he started to get hard again, what with the press of Eliot’s body against his, the way his hands explored him shamelessly, the thorough way he kissed him. He arched into Eliot, seeking friction against his hip and then stiffened when his hand wrapped lightly around him. “Jesus, Coldwater,” he murmured, his lips brushing against his. “So tense.”

He tried to relax, but Eliot’s touch only wound him up more. “Yeah, that tends to happen when someone – _oh._ ” His forehead dropped onto Eliot’s shoulder as he tightened his grip, stroking him from base to tip in slow, deliberate movements. “When someone…” He lingered at his head, swirling his thumb over it and Quentin’s words got stuck in his throat.

“You were saying?” Eliot said, a glint in his eye as he pushed Quentin onto his back. He gave up trying to speak, letting his eyes fall closed as Eliot shifted his position without ceasing his movements. His other hand slipped between his thighs and nudged them apart, and when he opened his eyes it was to see him settling in between his legs, his hand stilling in a lose grip around the base as he took the head of his cock in his mouth.

Wet heat enveloped him, sending a thrill through his whole body. “Oh fuck,” he said loudly, pushing himself up on his elbows. When Eliot sunk down further onto him, he fell back onto the bed, and then immediately decided that he had to watch him. Grabbing the other pillow, he folded it in half and propped it under his neck, his mouth falling open at the sight and the feel of Eliot’s lips tight around him as he pulled back to the tip. His hips jerked up, chasing the feeling, and one of Eliot’s arms shifted to rest across his hips, holding him down. Looking up at him, he pressed his lips to the underside of his cock in what was almost a chaste kiss, then took the head in his mouth again, swirling his tongue around it, and Quentin didn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed at the whine that fell from his lips.

He was absolutely certain that Eliot knew what he wanted more than he did, but it was an automatic move when his hand sunk into his hair, twisting in the strands. Eliot took him in further, his tongue teasing over the underside of his cock as his fingers danced lightly over his balls. He was as hard now as if he hadn’t come at all yet, and wondered if he could get Eliot anywhere near as worked up as this. Looking over his shoulder, he drank in the sight of his narrow back, the curve of his ass, before he realised that his hips were moving against the bed. Was he hard? Was he turned on by this?

Quentin wanted him more than just turned on – he wanted to watch him fall apart again. He wanted to fuck him. “Eliot,” he said, his voice thick, his breath catching when Eliot moaned around his cock. _Fuck._ He tugged on his hair and he reluctantly pulled back. “El, wait. I want…” He trailed off, completely thrown by the look of complete want on his face. His hair was a mess, his parted lips red and wet, his eyes dark. “Come here,” he said, and for some reason he actually listened to him. Sitting up, Quentin shuffled back until his back was against the headboard and pulled on Eliot’s arm until he straddled him.

Eliot’s smug, curious look faded when he curled his fingers around his cock, but he only gave it a few strokes before slipping his hand between them, moving lower to massage his finger against his opening. Eliot shifted against him, both hands gripping onto his shoulders. “I like where this is going,” he said with a happy sigh.

“Really?”

He immediately wished he could take it back at Eliot’s exasperated groan. “Ugh, it’s annoying how adorably hot I find you.”

“Shut up,” he said, pressing the tip of his finger inside him, and revelling in the way Eliot stiffened against him. He groaned as Quentin slid his finger further inside and then pulled gently against him. Eliot’s hands left his shoulders and he glanced down to see him tearing the wrapper on another condom, rolling it onto Quentin’s cock in one practised movement.

Grabbing the lube from out of the air beside them, Eliot poured a generous helping into his hand and used it to slick up Quentin’s cock. Quentin steadied it with his fingers around the base as Eliot raised himself slightly above him, pressing the head against his opening and licking his lips in anticipation. “Are you ready?”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one to as - oh fuck,” he moaned as Eliot sank down on him, his heart stopping at the tight heat overwhelmed him. Quentin couldn’t stop his hips from rocking up into his but Eliot didn’t seem to mind, groaning lightly as he pressed down further. He was smiling, his eyes half shut in pleasure and desire, and Quentin couldn’t believe that he looked like that because of _him_.

Moving one hand to the small of his back to encourage the roll of his hips against him, he grabbed the back of Eliot’s head with the other and pulled him down to kiss him hungrily. Eliot’s hands squeezed at his shoulders before his arms wrapped around him, pressing their bodies tightly together, and he felt completely and utterly surrounded by Eliot. He felt incredible. He couldn’t believe that this was a thing that was happening. Eliot started to roll his hips faster over his, making small sounds of pleasure and exertion, and the sight and sound of Eliot seeking out his own pleasure through him was so incredibly hot.

But not what he wanted. Not that he didn't want it, but... he wanted to blow his mind - or try to, anyway. Adjusting his arms around him, he held him close as he rolled them over until he was lying on top of Eliot, between his legs, and even if he didn't manage to do it without slipping out, Eliot still gave an impressed little giggle at the manoeuvre. Grinning, Quentin slid back inside him, holding tightly onto his hips as he began to fuck him in earnest, and the way Eliot's face contorted was the most satisfying thing he'd ever seen.

He leaned up onto his elbows, his eyes dark as he watched Quentin disappear into him again and again, and Quentin hoped he enjoyed the view anywhere near as much as he did. “Jesus fucking - ooohhh my god. Fuck, Q.” His hands slid over his chest, one settling on his shoulder while the other clutched tightly at his hip, helping him move against him. Quentin let himself fall forward, supporting himself on one hand above Eliot's shoulder. “Fuck.”

“Uh-huh.” He understood exactly what he meant. Every thrust sent pleasure soaring through him, and he pressed his face against Eliot's arm. “You're … Jesus, El, you feel so fucking good.” His chest was feeling tight so he slowed his pace, moving slow and deep for a few minutes. Once he’d caught his breath he shifted his knees on the bed, pushing himself up a little and starting to thrust into him in earnest. Eliot’s shoulders pressed back into the mattress and his eyes closed as he groaned, and Quentin realised he was getting close again.

He wasn’t going to come again until Eliot did, but he also didn’t know how long he could hold it off, not with how good this felt, not with Eliot. Moving his hand from his waist, he began to stroke his cock in time with his thrusts, their moans mingling together. He looked down to watch his hand move over Eliot, over _Eliot,_ and he buried his teeth in his lip, trying to hold it back but he couldn’t, not when he looked up to see him so lost in pleasure, and when his started to spark through him he had no choice but to surrender to it.

He thrust into him sharply, once, twice more before he came, crying out loudly as a great shudder ran through him. His head fell down against Eliot’s chest, and then Eliot’s fingers were threading through his hair, pulling him up to kiss him. His brain going deliciously fuzzy, he did his best to return the kiss, focusing on the movements of his hand and the little sounds he was making against his lips. The feeling of his muscles tightening around Quentin’s sensitive cock was too much, so he pulled out with another shudder and was able to focus on stroking Eliot. Soon he started to tremble, his hips moving up into Quentin’s touch, and he pulled his head closer, pressing his mouth hard against his, his moan high and ragged when he came.

Quentin’s breathing had started to even out but Eliot’s chest was still heaving, and Quentin dropped his head onto his shoulder, giving him space to catch his breath. He thought he should move off him, to get rid of the condom and to clean up, but he also really didn’t want to and both the arm wrapped tightly around his back and the hand twisted in his hair kept him in place. He turned his face into Eliot’s neck, breathing in the smell of sweat and sex, and smiling lazily when he let out a long, satisfied sigh. “You,” Eliot said tiredly, “have been holding out on me.”

Quentin laughed against his skin, and when Eliot’s grip on him loosened slightly he reluctantly made himself roll off him. The towel was right where he’d dropped it, and he wiped off his hand before passing it to Eliot and then carefully pulling off the condom, tying it off before tossing it in the trash. When he turned back to the bed Eliot was adjusting the pillows, and then reached down to pull a sheet up over him. It wasn’t until he was slipping under the sheet with him that it occurred to Quentin that he might not want him to stay the night, but his arm was already wrapping around his shoulders, his fingers tracing idle patterns across his skin once he’d settled against him, and he fell asleep to the soft rise and fall of Eliot’s chest beneath his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin wakes up in the middle of the night beside Eliot, and is surprised by a tender moment. The next day, his thoughts are his own worst enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the feedback on part one! I hope you enjoy the second half.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Quentin struggled against wakefulness, somehow knowing instinctively that it was nowhere near morning. He still felt bone-tired and he stretched his legs out, enjoying the softness of the sheets against his skin. Except he didn’t own silk sheets, and there was something warm pressing up against his back.

That something shifted, and Quentin’s eyes blinked open when he realised that something was Eliot. He could feel his long body curled up behind him, his hand resting high on his thigh, and his chest moved in long, steady breaths. The room was dark and quiet, so it was late enough that the party had wound down but not so late that the sun was close to rising. He thought about the party, how exhilarated he’d felt all night.

How he’d ended up in one of his best friend’s beds, naked, spooning, and with his hand dangerously close to his cock.

It didn’t feel real, but Eliot’s body against his was real, and the deliciously worn feeling through his body was real. Something warm settled in his chest as he let his mind wander over what had happened. He hadn’t ever imagined Eliot would be interested in him, not in a real way, but he’d seemed just as into it as he had been… and still was, he realised.

It wasn’t just the sex. He’d felt something, something he’d previously buried down deep because he hadn’t thought it was worthy, that Eliot wouldn’t want it, and his friendship meant too much to him to put it at risk. And he _knew_ that just because he’d found his way into his bed didn’t mean that Eliot had deeper feelings than he’d let on, but it was making it impossible to quieten his own.

And also, the sex _had_ been incredible. The way Eliot had worked his body… his cock twitched at the thought and he arched back against Eliot, revelling in the way he felt pressed up against him. Now was not the time to encourage a boner, not while Eliot was asleep, but he couldn't help it - the memory was too fresh, his body remembering exactly where he'd touched him, where he'd kissed him, where he'd…

Eliot shifted against him and Quentin, caught up in his thoughts, leaned back into him automatically, swallowing hard when Eliot's hand tightened on his thigh. “Q?”

His voice was thick with sleep, and he immediately regretted his restlessness. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“S’okay,” he murmured, taking a slow, deep breath and shifting more fully against him. He could feel the press of his cheek against his hair before warm lips touched his shoulder, and his hand slid up, over his stomach to his chest. Quentin caught his wrist in light fingers, stroking the back of his arm before he pulled it away to smooth his hand back down his stomach, and he thought he felt a stirring against his ass. He couldn't help it, he pushed back against it and both heard and felt Eliot sigh. Quentin held his breath as his hand slipped lower again, his fingers scratching lightly into his public hair, and then he let his eyes flutter closed when Eliot palmed at his hardening cock. “Mmm, hello.”

He still sounded half asleep, and his touch was light and lazy. His hand moved down to cup his balls, his fingers teasing over them gently for a minute before moving back to his erection, moving in long, slow strokes and Quentin melted under his touch, turning his head to press his cheek against Eliot's hair. Eliot kissed his shoulder, his stubble scratching against his skin as he rubbed himself against his ass, and oh, he was definitely hard now. His hand disappeared for a minute, and Quentin looked over his shoulder to watch his silhouette roll a condom on and then ready himself with the lube.

Turning back, he swallowed hard as he felt Eliot line himself up behind him, then whined when he held back. His hand moved to rest on his hip, his thumb stroking gently over his skin. “Breathe,” he whispered, but what Quentin managed was more of a gasp when Eliot started to push inside him. Once his hips were pressed firmly against his ass, he rolled them against him slightly before stilling, and brought his hand back to Quentin’s cock. He stroked him slowly, keeping his hips still until Quentin couldn’t stop himself from rocking back against him, desperate for friction, and then finally, _finally_ , he began to move.

This wasn’t anything like earlier - it wasn’t spontaneous and frantic and desperate. Eliot’s thrusts were slow and sure, his hands on him deliberate and familiar, and he felt every movement through every inch of him. He could take it like this forever, live in this moment forever. Eliot kissed his shoulder, his neck, and it felt so tender, so sensual. After a few minutes he reached back, threading his fingers through Eliot’s hair, pulling him closer against him. “El…”

Eliot moaned, long and low right in his ear, and Quentin was right there, his orgasm hitting him before he expected it. His other hand twisted in the sheets as his muscles started to tremble, and he bit down on his lip to muffle his cry as he started to come. Eliot’s thrusts became harder, his hips hitting sharply against his ass. His hand left him to press tightly against his chest, holding him tightly against him as his whole body stiffened, his cock pulsing deep inside him as his orgasm ran through him. His moan trailed off into a satisfied hum, his mouth softening against his shoulder.

Quentin’s hand found Eliot’s on his chest and held it there, holding onto the moment, but all too soon Eliot shifted, pulling out with a sigh and withdrawing his arm. Quentin rolled onto his back to see him sitting up, taking care of the condom and then tossing what he was affectionately coming to think of as the sex towel onto the bed beside him. Eliot was already stretching back out on his back as he cleaned up the remaining lube and then made a perfunctory swipe at the mess he’d made on the sheets. “Great,” he muttered.

“Hmm?” Eliot sounded like he was already halfway back to sleep.

“Wet spot.”

“Better sleep on this side then,” he mumbled, tugging on Quentin’s arm and he let Eliot pull him down against him, resting his head on his shoulder and smoothing his hand over his chest. After a moment he curled it around the back of his neck, letting the tips of his fingers slip through the hair at the back of his head, pressing lightly until Eliot turned his head and he could press a soft kiss to his lips. Eliot kissed him back, slowly, gently, his hand burying in his hair and his arm tightening around him to pull him closer.

His desire for this to never end warred with sleep’s grip taking hold of him again, and he reluctantly pulled back, pressing his face against Eliot’s chest. Their legs were tangled together, his body half-draped over Eliot’s, and he really didn’t want to move. Eliot’s hand trailed over his shoulder and down his arm, holding it loosely as he settled into the mattress, and Quentin sighed in relief. “Mmm, we should have sleepovers more often,” Eliot murmured, tightening his other arm around him slightly, and Quentin relaxed fully against him.

“Is that going to happen again in the morning?” he said, smiling tiredly against his skin. He probably sounded too eager.

But Eliot just sighed happily. “Huh. Probably.”

* * *

Quentin woke to a clear head, aching muscles, and an empty bed. Closing his eyes again, he fell back onto the mattress and covered his face with Eliot’s pillow.

Josh had been right - there was no groggy hangover, no uncomfortable coming down. No regret. Every minute of last night was clear in his mind. Every touch, every kiss, every exhilarated moment, every feeling.

Breathing in deeply to capture Eliot’s scent from the pillow, he put it back on the other side of the bed and reluctantly sat up. The room was definitely empty. His clothes had been folded and placed on the chair, and Quentin imagined Eliot fussing around the room while he was asleep. The thought made him smile.

Uncertainty pulled at him over the fact that he’d left, but it didn’t matter, right? From the brightness of the light peeking through the gaps in the curtains, it was well into the morning, and he probably had stuff to do. He’d probably just been nice by not waking him up.

Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to face him. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to deal with whatever awkwardness Quentin would undoubtedly bring to the situation, because obviously Eliot wouldn’t want it to happen again.

And if he didn’t… that was fine. He had no doubt that Eliot would be able to brush it off as just sex if he didn’t want anything more. And he could do the same. Those feelings could be shoved right back where they’d came from if they needed to be. It would be fine.

Sitting in the middle of Eliot’s bed with his sheet crumpled in his lap, Quentin realised just how much he wanted it to happen again. He thought of the tender way Eliot had touched him last night, how closely he’d held him, how softly he’d kissed him, and smiled.

The cottage was quiet when he left Eliot’s bedroom, and he thankfully didn’t run into anyone on the way to his own room. He took his time in the shower, not wanting to run downstairs in search of the others like some desperate fool, but his impatience was a hard thing to rein in. Despite his good mood, enough uncertainty danced at the edges of his mind that he wouldn’t feel entirely right until he saw Eliot, until he knew that everything was okay. Eliot’s friendship was one of the brightest things in his life, and the most important thing was that they didn’t fuck this up.

Which wasn’t going to happen. He was probably lounging on the couch with Margo, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil.

Pulling a grey t-shirt over his head, he finally ventured downstairs, pausing halfway down to look around. Someone had already cleaned up from the night before, and the usual amount of people for late on a Saturday morning were scattered throughout the room, but he didn’t see anyone he wanted to talk to. It was the same in the kitchen, so he made himself coffee and toast and tried not to be disappointed.

Grabbing a book from his room, he set himself up on the couch and tried to focus on the words in front of him. After half an hour he’d managed to turn his brain off enough to absorb something, and he let himself get lost in easy and familiar and safe. Eventually he got so relaxed that he didn’t hear the front door open, but he _did_ start at the sound of familiar laughter ringing through the common room.

Glancing up, he straightened when he saw Eliot kicking the door shut behind him and Margo, and tried to keep the smile off of his face with what he was sure was only limited success. He caught Margo’s eye from across the room and wondered if she knew when her face lit up. That was a good sign, right? “Quentin!” she called, waving him over, and he marked his page carefully before heading over to the door.

He wanted to play it cool, wanted to not look overeager, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking straight to Eliot. He’d dressed in a light blue polo shirt and white pants, his curls artfully falling onto his forehead on one side and a pair of sunglasses nestled carefully on top of his head. He had a paper bag in each arm, which he promptly pushed into Quentin’s arms. “Put these in the kitchen. And this one in the fridge,” he added, taking a third bag, this one plastic, from Margo and looping the handle around his wrist.

A little taken aback, he reluctantly tore his eyes away from Eliot and peered into the bags. He saw a variety of spirits, bread rolls, and what looked like… burgers? “You guys went into town?”

“We decided to have a barbeque,” Margo informed him matter-of-factly. “Have you been outside? It’s the perfect weather to drink away the afternoon.”

Quentin looked between them blankly, trying not to let his eyes linger on Eliot. He didn’t get any different vibe from him, but maybe he was just waiting until they were alone to talk. That made sense. “Isn’t all weather the perfect weather to drink away the afternoon?”

Margo squealed in excitement, and he frowned at her when she reached out to pat his cheek. “Oh, baby, he’s learning,” she said, grinning up at Eliot.

“Slowly but surely,” he agreed, taking a bottle of rum from one of the bags and sighing in exasperation when that upset the balance of the bag and Quentin almost dropped it. “I’ll make a start on the cocktails and meet you outside,” he said, stepping around Quentin and heading for the bar.

Margo turned and walked off at the same time, leaving Quentin standing by the door with his arms full of bags. Rolling his eyes for his own benefit, he headed for the kitchen, deposited the bags on the bench and the cold things in the fridge, and then headed back to the bar with the remaining bottles of alcohol. A jug was half full in front of Eliot, who had pulled a pineapple from somewhere and was in the process of chopping off the crown. He looked up when he approached, and smiled as he set the bottles on the bar. “Thanks.”

Quentin slipped his hands into his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. Eliot took one of the bottles – Malibu – and poured a generous amount into the jug. Quentin watched him carefully, chewing on his lip, wondering if he was avoiding meeting his eye or was just focused on what he was doing. “Do you want some help?” he asked casually.

Eliot did raise his eyes then, but the dubious look wasn’t what he was going for. “Please,” he scoffed, grabbing the large knife and getting back to work on the pineapple. “Let’s keep you out of the infirmary today, shall we? Go outside, enjoy the sun.” He paused. “Pretend to enjoy the sun. I’ll grace you all with my presence when this is ready.”

Quentin stared at him, trying to find even a hint of something more familiar in his manner, anything that could indicate he might give a shit. “But - really?” he said confusedly, and he thought he saw Eliot’s hands falter.

It was just a moment, but then Kady was beside him, reaching past him to pour herself a drink, and Eliot slipped back into his usual carefully carefree manner. He waited for a few more seconds, hoping for _something_ , and when Eliot continued to keep his eyes on his hands, he chickened out. “I - um, hmm.” Grabbing his Fillory book from the couch where he’d left it, he went outside to join Margo.

He could ask her about it, he realised, but if she knew anything it was likely that she wouldn’t tell him anything Eliot had asked her not to. But maybe Eliot hadn’t asked her to do anything. Maybe he hadn’t even mentioned it. Maybe it was something not worth mentioning, insignificant, unimportant.

Eliot joined them outside after a few minutes, followed by Alice and carrying the jug in one hand and four glasses in the other. He held them by the stems, and somehow managed to keep the wedges of pineapple in place on the rims. Eliot poured for them all and then passed the glasses around before raising his in a toast. “To drunken frivolity!” he said, tossing back half of his drink. Quentin echoed his words half-heartedly, taking a sip of the cocktail. If anyone noticed his lack of enthusiasm, no one commented on it.

After fifteen minutes or so the others went over to start cooking, but Quentin stayed where he was, sitting at the table on the patio. His book was open on his lap, but he watched the three of them as they stood around the barbeque, Margo’s arm linked with Alice’s as the two women watched Eliot place the burgers on the grill.

He couldn’t figure it out. He hadn’t expected him to be all over him without having the chance to talk about it, but he’d thought there’d be something. A joke, some flirting, their usual banter but suddenly loaded with so much more. An arm around him, as casual as always but a firm reminder of how close they’d been last night. Anything.

He hadn’t been prepared for the idea that it might mean nothing. The realisation was a bitter taste in his mouth that the cocktail couldn’t dilute. He had told himself that he knew it was a possibility and that he could deal with it if it was the case, but he hadn’t actually believed that Eliot hadn’t taken anything out of last night. He had no ideas of grandeur when it came to his talent in the bedroom, but he’d thought he’d at least held his own. The way Eliot had reacted to him had told him that he’d held his own. That at least warranted some kind of acknowledgement the day after, right? Even if it hadn’t meant anything more than that…

He’d been so sure that he’d felt something more in the way in the way he’d held him, something deeper. But maybe that’s just how Eliot was with people. And of course he wouldn’t want him, not when he could have literally any other guy he set his sights on.

All of his protests that he’d be okay if things stayed as they were fell away. It wouldn’t be okay. Of course it wouldn’t be okay. Quentin had opened a well of feelings, and trying to push them back down was like trying to fix a broken dam with tape.

Watching Eliot make the fire flare with a twist of his fingers, he wondered if it had even occurred to him that this was something worth freaking out about. Did he expect him to just shake it off like it had never happened? Had he considered the fact that this might change their friendship forever? Did he even care? Of course he did – Eliot was great at pretending not to care about anything, but he knew that he cared about him. Right? No, of course he did.

So what if Eliot thought _he_ didn’t think it meant anything, so… did he have to say something? Should he?

What if he told him how he felt and he laughed him off?

_What if, what if, what if, what if?_

What if he just found the courage to actually talk to him?

He didn’t notice Alice walking towards him until she was at the top of the steps, and he forced a smile at her as she sat down beside him. Her glass was still mostly full, and she took a small sip before setting it on the table. “Why don’t you join us?”

Shrugging, he looked around them pointedly. “I am.”

Alice’s eyes widened slightly. “Yeah, looks like it.”

He dropped his gaze to stare at the pages of his book, trying to focus on the words. He didn’t want to read, but he wanted to talk less.

If she was put off by him ignoring her, she didn’t let it affect her for long. “So Margo told me that she found you in Eliot’s bed when she dragged him out of it this morning to go shopping,” she said, the words all coming out in a rush.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, wishing he could just block out the whole damned world. The fact that Eliot hadn’t just snuck out didn’t make him feel any better. He could have woken him up. He could have said something. “Margo needs to mind her own business.”

He heard her sigh. Closing the book and putting it on the table, he brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. Resting his chin on his knees, he glanced at her sideways and found her watching him with her mouth pressed into a firm line, but they twitched into a hesitant smile that he was pretty sure he didn’t deserve. “Well, if it’s a thing, I’m happy for you.”

“It’s not a thing,” he said quickly, because it clearly wasn’t. It wasn’t. Eliot had barely looked at him. Not like he’d looked at him last night… He suddenly felt hot all over thinking about it, and then immediately felt stupid for getting so worked up. It must have been the drugs, right? He was confident that his decisions had been his own, but maybe Eliot had been more fucked up than he’d led on. Maybe he was just another random hook-up. And that’s fine, right? What’s some casual sex between friends?

Some mind-blowing, life-shattering sex between friends.

“I've always thought he was really into you,” she continued, completely oblivious to his internal struggle. “From like, day one. I just wasn't really sure if it was just Eliot being Eliot.”

“Trust me,” he said stiffly, picking up his glass and draining the rest of it. “It's just Eliot being Eliot.”

Alice paused, frowning at him thoughtfully. “I don’t -”

“Please,” he said, tightening his arms around his legs. “I just really don’t want to talk about it.”

She watched him for a few seconds, then sighed and pushed her chair back. “Just remember, Quentin, no one’s forcing you to sit over here by yourself. Don’t let yourself get in your own way.”

He watched her sullenly as she walked down the steps and headed back over to where Eliot and Margo were standing beside the grill. Eliot was gesturing wildly with the tongs, his whole face alight, and although he couldn’t hear what they were talking about, their laughter reached his ears easily. He looked up as Alice approached and said something to her that had Margo cackling. Grinning, Eliot’s eyes slid sideways to catch Quentin’s for a few long seconds before turning back to the others.

Like he didn’t even care if he was there or not. Like he didn’t even give a shit.

Quentin knew exactly what he was doing, but that didn’t mean he was able to stop it. His self awareness turned to self hatred. And that was exactly why Eliot didn’t want to acknowledge it, wasn’t it? What would Eliot want to do with someone as angry and broken as he was?

He had been so sure that it meant something, that it was more than just lust and desperation. He felt haunted by the tender way Eliot had held him in the middle of the night, the soft way he’d kissed him, the way he’d moaned his name. He couldn’t connect those memories with the way he felt right now – if not for that, he wouldn’t be so utterly confused. It was almost like it hadn't happened. He shifted slightly, the ache in his body making him very aware that it _had_ happened.

Eliot reached out with his long arm, trying to stab Alice with the tongs, and their laughter only cemented just how much he didn’t belong. Alice was right. No one was making him sit there.

Draining the last of his drink, he took his book and went back inside.

* * *

The silence in his room was too loud. He skipped through shuffle for five minutes, unable to settle on something to listen to, and then turned off the music in frustration.

Sitting on his bed, he slumped back against the headboard, letting his head hit it with a dull thump. The pack of cards was still sitting on his bedside table, and he flicked them into the air just like he’d done last night. Staring up at them, he thought of how much everything had changed since then.

It’s not that he _felt_ different. He knew that he admired Eliot, that he found him attractive, and he’d slipped into his thoughts once or twice when he was alone in bed. Eliot’s opinion mattered to him, more than anyone’s except maybe Julia, and maybe even then. He’d always known that he was important to him, but it wasn’t until he’d had him in his arms that he knew how much.

And now that he knew, he was going to have to pretend that he didn’t, because there was no way that Eliot would want him pining after him.

He could do it. He’d done it for years with Julia.

He’d really fucking hated pretending he wasn’t in love with Julia.

And he really hated the way that he perked up when he heard his bedroom door start to open. He didn’t even have time to process the fact that yes, he’d hoped Eliot would follow him inside, before Margo poked her head through the door. “Quentin,” she said, drawing his name out in complaint, and he sunk back into the bed as she opened the door the rest of the way and strode into the room. She stopped at the end of his bed, hands on her hips. “What the fuck are you doing up here? Come eat with us.”

Why couldn’t they just leave him alone for five goddamn seconds? “I’m fine,” he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. The cards were still in the air, had been hanging there for the past twenty minutes. He called them down, straightened them up and put them back on his bedside table.

Margo was grinning at him knowingly. “I bet you are, after the ride you got last night,” she said, her voice positively dripping with delight.

 _Here we go._ He wasn’t in the mood to put up with Margo giving him shit right now. “Yeah, can we please not talk about that?” he said, wishing he’d gotten under the covers so he could pull them over his head.

“Ugh, you too?” she said with a groan, walking around to sit on the side of the bed by his feet. She rolled her eyes in obvious frustration. “I had to practically blackmail Eliot to get the tiniest bit of detail, and now you’re holding out on me too? What the hell makes you think you two can bang and not tell me every glorious detail?”

“There’s nothing to hold out on,” he said to his knees. “It happened, and that’s it.”

When she still hadn’t responded after a minute or so, he glanced up at her hesitantly and was surprised to see her watching him with narrowed eyes. “You better not be fucking toying with him,” she said quietly, and the ice in her voice made him sink further in on himself. “If you’re trying to make Alice jealous because you’re pissy I’m boning her now instead of you and he gets caught in the cross-fire, I’ll make sure they never find your body.”

Did she seriously think that’s what this was? That he could ever do that to Eliot, or that he was still hung up on Alice? Margo was the furthest thing from warm and cuddly, and he felt a moment of appreciation that she actually did care about Alice before it was swallowed by his irritation. “Funnily enough, not everything has to do with you, or Alice.”

She went from menacing to annoyed in the blink of an eye, leaning back on one hand and gesturing toward him with the other. “Then what are you in here crying about?”

“I’m not –“ He swallowed his protest, sighing heavily and rubbing his hands over his face. There was no point arguing with her, not when she was right. Instead of thinking about it, he let himself get distracted by what else she’d said. “And how are you _boning_ her since you…” He trailed off at the wicked smile that spread across Margo’s face. “Whatever. I don’t want to know.” Margo’s grin only widened, and he resisted the urge to cover his face with his pillow. He settled for grabbing one and wrapping his arms around it, not caring if he looked stupid for needing the comfort. “And as you said, Eliot has no interest in talking about me or to me, so you shouldn’t either.”

Margo’s smile faltered, her face screwing up in confusion. “What the hell makes you think that?”

“Only the fact that you just said that he didn’t want to talk about me.” God, did he have to sound so bitter? “Or to me. He's basically ignored me all day, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Bringing her legs up onto the bed, she curled them up beside her, turning to face him more fully. “Has he, though?” she said pointedly. “Or are you just expecting him to chase you?” She raised her eyebrows at him pointedly. “Why aren't _you_ chasing _him_?”

Quentin looked at her askance. “It’s Eliot,” he said slowly. Wasn’t it obvious? Eliot was hardly shy with his affections – if he was interested, he would have made it clear.

“And?” Margo shook her head incredulously. “I know he's a histrionic drama queen, but he is kinda also terrified of anything that really matters.” Her brows drew together, and she looked about as serious as he’d ever seen her. “ _You_ really matter to him.”

He huffed in disbelief. “Yeah. Right.”

“You fucking idiot,” she said, and he frowned at the contradiction of her words and the depth of affection in her tone. “Honey, Eliot brags about his conquests like no fucking tomorrow. If he’s being tight-lipped about you, it’s because he actually gives a shit for once. He practically begged me just now to come in here all casual and tell you to get your ass downstairs.” She paused, and he watched her guardedly. He was pretty sure she wasn’t having him on… and that filled him with a nerve-wracking blend of hope and fear. After a pause, she pressed her lips together firmly, soft and warm Margo disappearing instantly. Pushing herself off of the bed, she headed for the door, pausing beside it and turning to look at him over her shoulder. “And I’m not going to be both of your fucking wingman while you two idiots don’t talk to _each other_ about this, so sort your shit out.”

She left without closing the door behind her, and he dropped his eyes to stare at his hands, twisting together in his lap. He hadn’t considered the idea that Eliot might be waiting for some kind of sign from him as well. He hadn’t known Eliot to hesitate on anything he wanted. It was easier to just assume that he wasn’t something that he wanted.

Because why would he be any different? Unless Margo was right. Unless he mattered, too, and Eliot was caught up in his own internal conflict about what it all meant.

Margo was usually right.

The thought of it being in his hands was fucking terrifying.

Gathering his courage, he made his way back downstairs, opening the back door and stepping out onto the patio hesitantly. Margo was refilling everyone’s glasses with a second batch of the cocktail punch, while Alice passed them around. And Eliot… Eliot sat opposite Margo, his arms and legs crossed, one foot tapping quickly in the air. When he caught sight of Quentin his face lit up for the barest moment before settling into something more neutral.

But that was okay, because Quentin saw it. He finally saw it.

“Fucking finally,” Margo said irritably, putting the empty jug on the corner of the table and sitting back down. “Sit your ass down, Coldwater.”

He moved slowly toward the table, pulling out the chair he’d been sitting in earlier. Beside his glass was a tall cheeseburger on a plastic plate, and he felt his stomach growling. It hadn’t been that long since his late breakfast, but he was still starving. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said as he sat down, hoping everyone’s meals hadn’t all gone cold while he was off sulking.

“Warming spell,” Alice said, sounding pleased with herself. Quentin smiled at her hesitantly. Did he need to apologise to her? He couldn’t recall just how much of a dick he’d been to her before.

Grabbing the ketchup from the middle of the table, Margo squirted a generous helping on her burger before replacing the top of the bun and picking it up with both hands. “Yeah, but I’m still hungry, so I’m still complaining,” she said before taking a bite.

“Shh, Bambi,” Eliot said, teasingly reproachful. “We couldn’t start without the whole gang being here.” Glancing at Quentin, he winked at him and then hesitated, and the cautious smile he gave him in that moment felt like the first real thing since he’d woken up. Quentin smiled back, and Eliot seemed to relax slightly.

It could mean anything, he knew that, but there was one thing that Quentin was suddenly sure of. Whatever happened, they hadn’t fucked this up. They were going to be okay.

* * *

An hour later, the four of them moved back out on the grass. Quentin sat with his legs stretched out, leaning back on his hands, letting the early afternoon sun soak through him. It would have been unpleasant if he’d been hungover, but he just felt warm. He should spend more time outside.

Alice sat a few feet away with Margo behind her, idly braiding her hair. She glanced up and smirked when she caught him watching them. “Do you want me to do yours next?” she asked sweetly.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said dryly, but couldn’t stop his lips from twitching into a smile.

“Did he ever let you braid his hair?” she asked, nudging Alice lightly.

It should have been more awkward, but he was more alarmed with the idea that she’d actually try and style his hair than he was embarrassed about discussing his relationship with Alice. It didn’t seem to bother Alice either, which made him feel a little relieved. It felt good to be past it. “No, but I didn’t actually ask him.”

“Pity,” Margo said distractedly, shaking out the braid and starting again. “He’d look so pretty.”

“So pretty,” Eliot agreed. He was stretched out beside them, one hand picking at the grass while the other rested on his chest. His eyes had been closed underneath his sunglasses, but now he opened them as he pushed himself up slightly, reaching across to tap the backs of his knuckles against the outside of Quentin’s thigh.

Which meant… what? Quentin frowned at him when he continued to look at him expectantly. “What – what do you –“

Sighing at the obvious inconvenience, he leaned forward further, waving his hand in the direction of Quentin’s. Sitting up straighter, he offered up his hand and Eliot closed his around it, tugging on him until he was in the position that he wanted him. Which was, apparently, with his head on Eliot’s stomach. He lay on his back, almost perpendicular to Eliot, and felt his head and shoulders rise and fall slightly with every breath he took. The sun was high in the sky, and he closed his eyes against the glare.

Eliot was one of the most touchy-feely people he’d met, and he was used to being manhandled like this into whatever kind of physical contact he felt like at the time, and this felt the same… except for the new tension he felt in every part of his body. It was only made worse from the fact that both Margo and Alice were within arm’s length, and they both knew not just what had happened last night, but how he felt about it.

Eliot’s fingers touched the top of his head before gently threading through his hair, and he stiffened further, his over-analysis of what was happening going on pause as his mind was brought back to the present. “Please don’t braid my hair,” he complained.

“Shh, Q,” Eliot said, gently working through the strands, and it felt so good that he couldn’t help but melt into the touch. “Relax.”

 _Relax._ Just like he’d told him last night, when… His heart jumped in his chest. Had Eliot said that on purpose? And if not, had he realised where his mind had gone?

He prayed really fucking hard that he wasn’t going to get a boner.

Eliot continued to play with his hair, and eventually he found himself relaxing into the touch. Margo was telling them something she’d heard from Camille about one of the other psychic students, and Quentin let himself tune out to the sound of her voice, and the vibrations of Eliot’s as he joined in on the gossip.

After a while the sun’s red burn through his eyelids lessened for a moment, and he opened his eyes, squinting, to see the women standing and heading back toward the cottage. “Where are they going?”

Eliot laughed quietly, making his head bob slightly. “Someone wasn’t paying attention, were they? Alice wanted to make more drinks, and Margo went with her to make sure she comes back with something close to tolerable.”

Which was fair.

And also suspiciously convenient.

Eliot’s hand had stilled a while ago and had just been resting against his head, but now he resumed his movements. He brushed his hair back from his forehead and then threaded his fingers through it slowly, scratching his nails against his scalp. His eyes fluttered closed again. It was so soothing, felt so good, that he could have fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the nervous thundering of his heart. They were finally alone, properly alone, and he was too anxious to speak. _What did last night mean to you? Are you interested in me?_ He opened his mouth, the words ready on his tongue, but chickened out before he could speak them. _Just speak, you useless idiot._

The silence stretched out between them, and Quentin wondered if it was just getting awkward on his side or whether Eliot was fretting as much as he was. “So Margo _literally_ dragged me out of bed this morning,” Eliot said after a minute or so.

He wasn’t sure whether it was the conversational tone or just the break in the tension, but Quentin huffed a laugh. “I heard.”

Eliot’s touch became a little firmer, a little slower, and it felt so tender that Quentin’s chest tightened. “I did want to stick around for round…” His voice was deep and solemn until he paused, and when he continued it had returned to the same lightness he’d had before. “Wait, is it three or four? Are you supposed to count orgasms or sessions?”

Quentin blinked his eyes open, relieved that the sun had gone behind a cloud and completely thrown by the fact that they were just lying there, casually talking about orgasms. It was just like usual, just like nothing had changed, and for the first time Quentin realised maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe not _everything_ had to change.

That realisation, combined with Eliot’s hand in his hair and his eyes on the clouds, made him feel brave. “I think the more important question is whether there’ll be a round four and five.”

Eliot’s hand stilled in his hair, and he was silent for long enough that Quentin began to question not just his words, but everything he’d ever done to lead him to this point. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and hesitant. “Is that what you want?”

Quentin wanted to turn his head to look at him, to see the look on his face, to get some kind of idea what he was thinking. “Is that what _you_ want?” he countered.

He felt Eliot take a deep breath. “You’re one of my best friends,” he said softly, and Quentin wondered if Eliot felt as safe in this non-eye contact as he did. He certainly sounded more open than he was used to. “I don’t want to fuck that up.”

It couldn’t be true. Eliot couldn’t have spent the whole day panicking about the same things he was. “Is that why you've basically ignored me all day?”

Eliot snorted, surprising him. “Yeah, because you hiding with your nose in a book really screams ‘let's talk about the fact that we banged.’”

“You started it,” he protested, pressing his lips firmly together to contain his smile.

Silence stretched between them again, until Eliot sighed, dropping his hand from his head completely. “Look. I'm not good at this. I'm not good at… feelings. But I have them, and now you know, so that’s that.”

He sounded so matter-of-fact, like he just wanted to get the words out and then forget it ever happened. His heart beating out of his chest, Quentin turned and raised himself on his elbow, his desire to read Eliot’s expression outweighing the relatively safety of staring at the sky. Eliot was watching him closely, his other arm underneath his head, and for once his guard had dropped completely. He looked… nervous.

He, Quentin Coldwater, had made Eliot Waugh _nervous._

Acting on impulse before his courage could fail him, he moved quickly, rolling over and pushing himself across the grass in one movement. Eliot pushed himself up on his elbows, his brow pinching uncertainly. His breath hitched when Quentin leaned over him, took his head in both hands and kissed him firmly.

It burned through him like fire, the knowledge of just how right this was, just how incredible it felt, and that was before Eliot’s hand gripped at the back of his neck, holding him in place as his lips parted against his. Quentin kissed him hungrily, all of the confusion and frustration and hurt he’d felt since he’d woken that morning fading away when Eliot’s arm slipped further around his neck, pulling him with him as he leaned back into the grass, his other arm wrapping firmly around his waist. Moving one hand to hold himself above Eliot, he slid the other into Eliot’s hair to cup the back of his head, tilting his own to deepen the kiss, one of his legs slipping between Eliot’s to press their bodies together.

A cheer that was unmistakably Margo sounded from the direction of the cottage and Quentin found himself grinning, happiness bubbling up inside him and making him giddy. Eliot laughed into his mouth but didn’t stop kissing him, instead only pulling him closer.

Quentin took his lead happily.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
